


Dealing With It

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel reacts to Spike's severed hands</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dealing With It

_"With transfusions I could keep you alive indefinitely." – Angel, 'Sleep Tight'_  
  
He'd been too late. They'd tracked her down, found her and subdued her, but not before she'd - God, he couldn't even think about what she'd done without the bile rising in his throat. How could she?!? He briefly considered calling Buffy to inform her of what her precious little insane slayer had done, but that would mean explaining the rest of it, and he wasn't about to do that.   
  
Angel growled and picked up the phone, punching in the extension for the chief mage. "Bring him down to Room 42," he barked. Without waiting for an answer, he hung the receiver up and started out of the office. "I'm in a meeting for the rest of the day," he informed Harmony. "Nobody bothers me unless it's about Spike."   
  
"But there's no meeting on your -"   
  
"Nobody. And I'll be holding you responsible if that's not obeyed. Is that clear?" He turned a look on her that was usually only seen when he terminated employees. She swallowed hard and nodded. Satisfied, Angel walked over to the elevator and pressed the down button, stepping inside without a further word once the doors opened.   
  
Wolfram & Hart didn't believe in elevator music, so the trip down to the sub-basement was made in silence. Spike would've said that they probably figured their clients were evil enough already without adding to the fire. The doors opened on the long dark hallway and Angel stepped out, then keyed in the code to lock the elevator. There was no need for a guide, not when he knew the way as well as he did.   
  
Room 42 had been set aside for his private use for a while now. None of his friends knew about it or what he did in there, and that was just the way he wanted it. He pressed his hand against the pad beside the heavy iron door, waiting for it to swing open before he walked inside. At the sound of his footsteps, the blindfolded figure in the center of the room turned his head towards him, and Angel smiled. "Hello, Matthias."   
  
At the sound of his voice, Pavayne cringed, sinking down into himself. He'd been there long enough to know what that voice meant – what any voice meant, since his caretakers were forbidden to speak to him – but this voice was different, especially when it greeted him in the silken purr. The blond vampire had been hurt in some way, and now the dark one would make him pay for it.   
  
Angel paid no attention to the sorcerer's obvious fear, turning instead to the table that had been prepared for him over by the wall. He surveyed the instruments laid out there, then selected a few and set them to the side. "Spike's in the hospital wing," he commented casually as he peeled his jacket off and hung it over the back of a chair before starting to unbutton his shirt. "He fought a slayer. Now, I know that's not such a big deal, but you see, this slayer was insane. And she thought Spike had killed her family and tortured her."   
  
The shirt joined the jacket as the scent of fear thickened until he could taste it on the back of his tongue. "I see you understand how that could be a bad thing," he said softly. Metal gleamed in his hand as he scooped the corkscrew up and started over to where Pavayne hung from his shackles. "Of course, I haven't told you the extent of his injuries yet, but does that really matter?"   
  
There was a hesitation, and then the dark head nodded slowly. It did, it had to, but there was no way of knowing if having them listed would make it better or worse. Angel drew a line from throat to sternum, the tip of the corkscrew raising a pink welt. "She beat him down, battered him with her fists, but that's normal for a slayer." The corkscrew traced random patterns over his torso, never quite breaking skin. "But then... then she crossed the line."   
  
Metal touched skin as he repositioned his tool. Keeping it square over the other man's nipple, he began to twist, waiting until he smelled blood for the first time before he continued. "She knocked him out, you see. Then she drugged him and took him off to where she'd been tortured." The first coil was almost all the way through, but he didn't stop. "God only knows what she did to him while she had him there." While he'd been frantic to find them, almost insane with worry over his childe, constantly trying to reach out through the bond that hadn't existed in years.  
  
"But she wasn't satisfied with just torture, and she didn't give him the kindness of dusting him." Two coils deep, three and almost four before he felt the tip scrape against the breastbone. "She cut his hands off instead." His voice was flat as he recounted the story, finally speaking the words that would make the horrors of it all real. "She cut off his fucking HANDS!"   
  
Angel's howl of rage was seconded by Pavayne's scream when the corkscrew was ripped free with one savage jerk. Gobs of flesh and muscle clung to the coils, but he gave the instrument only a second's examination before he tossed it onto the floor. A backhand caught the writhing man across one cheek. "Do you like that, huh? Like knowing how he suffered?" Angel demanded, dark eyes glittering with hatred as he looked at the man that had thought to cast his boy into hell.   
  
Pavayne shook his head and a heavy fist plowed into his stomach. He sobbed softly as he struggled to stay on his feet, and when a hand hooked under his arm, he thought it might finally be over. But he was just being held still while the tethers above were released. A hard shove sent him sprawling forwards and before he could blink, the vampire was on him, one hand fisting in his hair to pull his head back.   
  
Something pointed brushed against the blindfold. "What do you think I should cut off to make me feel better?" the low voice hissed. "Shove something through your eyes?" It retreated and he was pushed down, his face ground into the floor as the point sought the back of his neck. "Pluck out a piece of your spine?"   
  
"P-please," he mumbled, but the begging seemed to only agitate him further. The hand in his hair pulled him back again, arching into a bow that threatened to snap his spine while a growl echoed in the room. A blow to his kidneys left him whimpering, and the second he was released, he curled into a ball.   
  
Angel got up and stalked over to the table, steel clattering as he let the forceps fall. He reached out, hands trailing over razors and daggers, but they weren't enough. He needed more, needed something that would really make - perfect! Brown eyes lit up and he snatched his chosen item up, then returned to Pavayne, giving him a hard kick in the stomach to lay him out again.   
  
Grabbing hold of Pavayne's hands, Angel planted a knee in his back and stretched his arms over his head. "Rule number seven, Matthias," he hissed. "Never try to avoid what you know you have coming to you." A moan answered him, but he was too busy spreading Pavayne's hands out on the floor to pay attention.   
  
"When you were trying to destroy him, did you even take the time to look at Spike?" he asked almost absently. "You should've. He's beautiful – always has been, even when he had that stupid ponytail and insisted on dressing like a dock worker to hide it. And do you know what one of the most beautiful things about him was?"   
  
There was no way Pavayne didn't know the answer, or realize what was coming next. But Angel waited, let the silence spin out until it pressed down on them before he roared, "His HANDS!" He brought the mallet down on the back of Pavayne's right hand, bone splintering under the force of the blow, drawing a howl from the other man.   
  
"My boy's hands are works of art." Crack! Two fingers were flattened by the mallet. "They should be admired, not hacked off." Thwack! A fingernail fell off as the remaining two digits broke under the assault. "And that bitch took a fucking hacksaw to them!" Angel dropped the hammer and closed his hand around Pavayne's thumb, crushing it in his grip.   
  
No whimper or cry answered him, just the silence and echo of his own fury. He dropped the limp hand and gave the unconscious form a final kick as he rose. "Get him fixed up and back in his cell," he ordered shortly, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the hooded figure that had watched the entire proceedings.   
  
Going over to the sink, Angel washed his hands and face, the running water merging with the low drone of chanting until it was almost hypnotic. He wet a towel and cleaned the blood off his chest, put his shirt and jacket on, then went upstairs to check on Spike. Hopefully he'd be out of surgery, even if he wasn't awake yet.


End file.
